02.28.07
A Muse, me.
Got an impromptu email from The Muse, entreating me to join her for drinks. She mentioned Blue Smoke, and what can I say - a place that’s decorated like the beach bars I’d frequent down in A.C., BBQ and live jazz are way too tempting for me to resist…
As soon as I pulled up to the bar, it felt like home - I’m certainly going to frequent this place in the future. The Muse arrived shortly thereafter and instantly we’re back into the engaging conversation - its been far too long since we talked last and it feels good to catch up. I ask about her new kitten, and she relates many funny and over the top cute stories about her new charges misadventures, how it loves attacking everything in sight and lives to pester Lita, her older cat.
And then she amazes me by telling me that she named the kitten after me.
I had been along for the trip when she got the little guy, (as documented here) but assisting with some minor navigation and morale support, but this honor was totally unexpected. I feel like I’ve just been made a god-parent…
Our conversation drifts, and soon we’re talking about the occupation hemorrhoid and I confess that I’ve been getting a little nervous about such a shift - throwing the comfort of a 9-5 away for the uncertainty of the ’starving artist’ lifestyle. And somehow, she manages to cut through my self-doubt and remind me of my talents, my drive and her confidence in my abilities quiets the nagging, self deprecating voice in the back of my head…
And of course, the topic drift to the 2nd painting of her. The one that I’ve been putting off. The one she instantly zeroes in on the fact that I’m intimidated by using color on this one - and that trying to match her coppery locks will be a monumental challenge. Damn the girl - pointing out my best attributes and worst foibles, all in the span of 5 minutes. But then again, she’s dealing me a brand of honesty most people gloss over without a second thought.
Pretty soon we’ve got to wrap it up - its a school night, kids. We walk to the lot where her car is, and bid her goodnight - the walk home is drowned out by thoughts of oil paint and my god-child, Ipod blasting Amon Tobin, jazzy echoes and a warm breeze, hinting at the promise of a coming spring…
